


Need

by kissontheneck



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Cookleta, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-26
Updated: 2009-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissontheneck/pseuds/kissontheneck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys torn asunder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is seeing things.

You sit down at the piano and you can almost see his hands tracing the keys. Moving like you've never seen hands move before, effortlessly like they always knew what to do.

Like breathing.

Hands that caressed that piano with the same gentleness he'd use to touch your arm, hold your chin, grab your hand. Hands that would always brush your temple, touch your lips, and produce the worst handwriting you had ever seen in your life.

You remember when the piano came into the apartment. The movers thought you were kidding when you said you needed to get a baby grand piano to the loft apartment at the top of this building. Indeed, it wasn't easy. The movers joked (or maybe they were serious!) that they hoped you never planned to move it again.

No, you told them, you didn't.

You thought about that the day he left, too. When he walked out and didn't come back. He'd never not come back before.

You're sitting at one end of the bench, like you always did when he was there. He'd play your favorite piano piece, "Moonlight Sonata", and you'd watch his face as he'd close his eyes, bow his head. It was like you could see his soul pouring out onto the keys. You could almost swear you could see it now.

But now the keys are dusty, the sheet music still on the floor where you swept it off in anger, shouting. It was new music, pencil marks filling the margins in his delicate scrawl, notes smeared as left-handed writing often is. You on the other hand, you haven't written anything in so long. You're not even sure you ever have, the feeling of disconnection is so great.

You haven't slept properly since he's been gone, which has been... six weeks? Six months? More? You haven't any concept of time anymore, not when each second of it is equally agonizing, day or night. There's a pillow and blanket on your couch; they've been there as long. You haven't slept in your own bed, because he's somehow still there.

In fact, you can't believe all the places he can be, all at the same time. At the piano writing, in the kitchen making a sandwich, in your bed sleeping like an angel. On the subway, you see his reflection in the glass as the lights dance past you. Standing out on the balcony early in the morning, his breath crosses your neck. Down at the Chinese restaurant the next block over, his smile pushes little creases into his eyes as he fumbles with his chopsticks.

You waited a long time. That's how it worked, after all. The waiting. He'd call, or you'd call, or you'd talk to mutual friends, or he'd just walk in the door, or be waiting for you when you got home. But no one had called this time. You wanted to so badly, but just couldn't. You'd fucked it up for the last time.

His voice rings in your ears, both "I love you" and "I hate you." Even in anger, it was like a sonata. Even without the gentle laugh, it rang with sweet measure. Everything about him radiated in the magical intangibility of music. Maybe that was why you loved him so much -- it was like your heart was standing in front of you and you just had to reach out and grab it. And now you realize that's exactly what this feeling is -- your heart is completely missing.

There's a sound in the apartment, a creak. You look up, past the trashed kitchen, past the mounting mail on the table. What was that? It was so quiet these days that to hear a sound was almost terrifying. You squint further into the darkened room. There, just passing through your peripheral vision -- a movement. Wasn't it? Even though that doesn't make sense, you hope...

"David?" The word breezes out of your mouth on its own, it's like someone else said it on your behalf. You wait. Your heart pounds. It's quiet.

"David?" This time it's too quiet for even you to hear. Your voice is raspy from disuse, and there's something caught in your throat anyway.

You look back down in front of you, feeling foolish. And then... the uncontrollable anguish. Your eyes close. Your elbows crash into the keys of the piano, your hands catching your face. What they can't catch, however, are the rushing tears. They can't catch his voice which lingers, and they can't catch his shadow, lurking just out of your sight. They can't catch the breaking pieces of your heart, falling into oblivion.


	2. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard not to fall.

You palm your phone for the one thousandth time today. You check it again to see who's called, to make sure the the ringer's volume is up, to be sure it's even on at all.

No one's called.

Somehow you desperately want him to call you, and at the same time don't. Because if you talk to him, if you hear that scratch in his voice or the lilt of his laugh, you'll be gone again. Drawn in, sucked unwillingly and without any power of your own into him. Out of your mind and beyond reason.

Reason. That was always the problem. You tried to reason with him about how you were feeling about some of the things going on while he was on tour. For one thing, fan interactions were getting a little personal, you felt. It was alarming to open e-mails from friends who attached photos of him from message boards and seeing how downright... personal he was being. He didn't see it, nor see why you were making a deal about it... again. He called you immature and then, with a hitching laugh, made a comment about how he shouldn't be surprised.

Sometimes, he can't see the forest for the trees.

You learned that phrase from him. Forest for the trees. Also the words culpable, chagrin, juxtapose, ambiguity, ostentatious, and trite. You learned so much from him, every day. Every day there'd be a word or a phrase, a random piece of trivia, something he saw on Discovery Channel.

He was like your own personal Discovery Channel. Before him, you'd never been so exposed, so fascinated, by everything in the whole entire universe. It was like being reborn, opening your eyes for the first time... over and over and over. And you were drawn to it. You couldn't help it. Your heart drawing you, all the time, closer and closer, in an orbit. Its force a hundred times stronger than your mass.

He described to you how the moon affects the waves, how the planets align, and all about Newton's Third Law of Motion. _"Whenever a particle A exerts a force on another particle B, B simultaneously exerts a force on A with the same magnitude in the opposite direction."_ Yeah, you memorized it. You memorized it because right then in that moment it sounded like poetry. Like he was A and you were B.

"Stop it," you say to yourself. "Stop thinking about him." If this keeps on, you'll be looking at photographs next, then reading old text messages. Then you'll call, or fly back out there or... and once that happens, you'll be caught again. Caught in his orbit, always circling.

No, you couldn't do it again. Because, you admitted, you were jealous. A terrible, jealous person who angered quickly to see anyone touch him, to see anyone, even just fans, ask him for a mere hug. Because that was your space. Your space fit right into his, shaped perfectly around him. Yours, and no one else's. And if he wasn't going to understand that -- if he didn't feel the same way... why, you didn't know what to do anymore. It would be better if you stayed away.

You drop the phone on your bed next to you. It's getting darker here in the basement of your parents' house. No one has disturbed you all day. You know it's your mother doing the hard work of keeping them away, and the even harder work of keeping herself away. You think about going upstairs, but then... you just can't. You wish you could will the upstairs piano down to you, but instead you settle for the next best thing. You get up from the bed, wobbly on your legs which haven't had much action today, and sit at your old standby, Lucia, the first electronic keyboard you ever owned. Her keys are familiar to you, more familiar than anything else you know, your fingers fit right into the worn grooves. You close your eyes.

It turns out you don't need one scrap of music to play the most riveting and perfect performance in your life of "Moonlight Sonata".


	3. A Thousand Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's worth it after all.

**When you wake up, it's after five. You've been sleeping all day. Sometimes, it's the only way to suppress the pain that lingers like a heavy cloak on your heart, to turn off your brain, to keep yourself from thinking so much. You're starving. You realize you haven't eaten in ages, which isn't surprising. It's been hard to eat at all, as you feel very little else but pain these days, let alone hunger. You grab your keys off the table, slip on your jacket, slip on your boots. Out the door you go, but not before grabbing those aviator sunglasses, which both block the brightness of day and conceal the fatigue in your eyes.**

_You ask yourself why you're here, for the fiftieth time since you decided to come. You could still turn back. You could still make the decision to keep your original word -- that'd you'd never come back. But you're on the street now, the one that you could trace with your eyes closed, and that'd be an awfully expensive trip to the Central Park Zoo for the afternoon. You had the cab driver let you out about five blocks away. You stood there for a moment, in front of a fresh vegetable stand, probably looking lost and ridiculous. You can see the building from here, towering above the buildings around it, and you remember the incredible view from up there. You step out into the street._

**At the end of this block is what you consider the best kept secret in the city, The Union Jack Pub. You've gotten to know the owner and you hope that he'll be there, because he often gets you anything you want, even off-menu, and usually doesn't make you pay for anything, no matter how much you insist. Of course, whoever's waiting on you that day then gets a tip equaling about what you'd've paid for the meal, and the wait staff had actually started bribing the host to seat you in their section. You usually preferred the window, but because of the flattery of being the most sought-out customer to have ever set foot in the Union Jack, you accept a seat towards the back, close to the bar, where smokers are still secretly welcomed.**

_The sights and smells of the street take hold of you, as you knew they would. You never believed that this place could possibly be on the same **planet** as that small, conservative town where you grew up, let alone the same country. Something about it is seductive, even with all its crime, dirt and liberal hysteria. Or maybe those are the things that are exactly what is seductive about it. Or maybe it's him, as well. Anywhere he was was the most seductive place on earth. You pass the Union Jack and your heart lodges in your throat. You're a block away._

**Liam, the owner, arrives at your table. He's already got that Guinness poured for you. He's happy to see you, mentions he was starting to worry. You manage a fake smile, and a look in his eyes tells you everything he's thinking. He knows it's fake, but he's too nice to say. Sure, he'd joined you at your table before, you'd put your trust in him more than once. But this time, you know that he's thinking that he'd better stay out of it for now, though his curiosity is surely redlining. He says he'll be back for your order and his rubber-soled industrial shoes squeak as he heads off. You grab the Guinness, draw it to your lips. From across the restaurant, you can see people passing on the street. You are slightly stricken, but quickly over it, when you see someone passing who looks like him. Almost two million people in this city and surely at least half of them look like him. At least, through your eyes, through these glasses. Through the reflections and half-glances, everyone looked like him.**

_You punch the elevator buttons without looking at them. Your hands are moving again as if drawn by power not your own. The ride seems shorter than it's ever been before, and when you step out at the end of it, it's like you're gliding on one of those moving sidewalk things from The Jetsons. You're standing at the door. You don't know if you should knock or just go in. It is your home after all, at least technically. Your hand glides into your pocket, making the decision for you. You fumble with the keys for a second, finally picking out the right one, and as your hand moves closer to the door the thought passes through you that he may have changed the locks. Hell, he might have **moved**. The key slides into the keyhole without the slightest sign of friction. You turn the knob and push the door slowly open._

**Liam is back and he smiles for your sake. He's brought you bread and butter and a copy of _The New York Times_ because he knows you'll want to do the crossword. He asks you if you'd like another beer, as you've already drank most of the first one. Yes, you say. He asks feebly how you're doing these days. You say okay, but don't look at him. You can feel his gaze on you as he searches your half-hidden face. You order the fish and chips.**

_You peek around the door, into half-darkness. You don't know what to expect. A shout, a gasp... a punch in the face? Swinging the door all the way open, you realize he's not in the immediate area. You step in, letting the door click closed behind you. You stand there for an eternity -- well, probably just a minute -- before you softly say his name into the abyss. Again, you say it, louder this time. "Are you here?" You scan your surroundings. "David, are you here?"_

**It's three beers before your dinner comes. As expected, Liam brings you another one. You don't refuse it. It's not the first time you've medicated yourself with the dark syrup of a foamy Guinness. Or a case. Liam knows he's like a dealer, but he's also from Ireland. That's how he'd do it too. You take your time eating, though you can hardly taste it. You were starving when you came in, but as soon as you take a bite of that succulent golden fish, you instantly feel full again. It's a shame, you know it's the best fish and chips you've ever had in your entire life. When Liam comes back ten minutes later, you ask him to wrap it up. In the bag he brings back from the kitchen, there's also a giant slab of Guinness cake, and one more bottle for the road.**

_You move across the kitchen, which is in complete disarray. It's obvious he hasn't cleaned, washed dishes, bought groceries -- in ages. There's a Mount Everest of mail on the table. You glance at the things piled on the top. An unopened letter from Adam, something that's addressed to both of you and clearly a wedding invitation, several "last notice" unpaid bills. Your feet carry you through to the living room, where books and papers are stacked haphazardly, a pizza take-out box littered with crusts is balanced on the coffee table, and a pillow and blanket are strewn across the couch. You touch the pillow as you would touch his face if he were there right now._

**You thank Liam for everything and force a fifty dollar bill into his hands. He thanks you repeatedly and tells you not to be so much of a stranger. Just before he opens the door for you he tells you to call him anytime you need anything, whether that be food delivered at two in the morning or if you need someone to talk to. It's all he says, but all he needs to. He knows and you know that more is said in fewer words. You thank him again and head out the door. As you retrace your steps back home, you think that all you want now is a hot shower and sleep. Sleep was becoming a defense mechanism, just like the Guinness. Frankly, one really helps out the other, and ultimately vice versa.**

_He isn't there, so you wonder where he could be. You wonder if you should stay. Would that be weird? But where would you go instead? You pause another moment before deciding that you'll go for a walk, getting some fresh air may prove helpful later. You go for the door and suddenly feel a wave of panic. This is your chance to still get out, to not do this. Just get on the elevator, escape the building, get a block away and you're out of range again -- out of the orbit. It keeps rolling around in your mind as you now take the longest elevator ride in your life. That damn elevator knows when you're anxious, you think to yourself. It only goes faster when you want more time, and slower when you're trying to flee. You finally step out into the lobby, which is eerily empty. You get halfway past the lobby restroom before you realize you should use it, and you duck inside at the last moment._

**You muscle open the lobby door to your building -- it's more difficult when you're sleepy and fuzzy. Your boots sound loud against the hardwood floor, and if it weren't you making the noise, you'd probably make a snarky comment to the offender. You punch the elevator buttons without looking properly -- you couldn't anyway if your life depended on it. You wait. And wait. And wait. Fucking elevators always take forever when you just want to go upstairs, take a shower and fade away into unconsciousness. Finally, the floor light reaches "ground" and you hear the elevator creak to its resting place. The doors slide open.**

_You take a minute to look at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are tired and dark along the bottom, almost like smeared eyeliner. How can you go through with this? How can you retain your control if you just go back... again? Again and again, you go back. Why? You wash your hands slowly. This is your chance to make a break for it. Yeah, this was a stupid idea. Your head is consumed with the desperation of wanting to walk out onto the street, hail a cab, have one immediately stop for you and then you get in and drive away. Forever. You dry your hands, and push against the men's room door._

**There are about forty people on the elevator, you figure. You hold the door impatiently as children, the elderly and one person in a wheelchair pour out as slowly as humanly possible. Just as you're about to step in, some jackass sweeps by in front of you. Why do people do that? Why do they think that just because you're holding the door for a lady or the elderly that you've suddenly volunteered to be the doorman? Damn it, you're chivalrous, but not slave labor.**

_Your eyes scan the suddenly busy lobby. You're quite surprised by all the people milling about. A couple teenagers laughing, a man checking his mail, two children chasing one another as their mother rings the bell at the doorman's desk. Near the elevator you see some punk kid cut off the guy who is holding the door open for people. How annoying. You always hated it when people would do that to... to..._

"David?"

**At first you don't hear it. It's noisy, you're distracted and tired, and it's not like you ever believe it when you hear it anymore anyway. Not until he says it again, louder, do you turn your head. Your hand slides off the side of the elevator door and it closes as if it too has been waiting impatiently. Your vision is blurry, and it's difficult to make out anything right in front of you, let alone thirty feet away.**

_He looks like death. He's lost weight and his hair looks as if birds have taken up residence in it. He pulls off his aviators and squints._

**The vision of him is like a dream. Dreams you've been waking up from with heart racing. Only now it was different. Now, even through foggy vision and a sleepy head, you were certain it was real. It was most definitely real.**

_Once again you're there, facing the pull that's impossible to fight. Only now do you realize, it's completely scientific, this thing. The forces of nature cannot be fought. Your feet creak forward._

**All noise has left your head. All noise, that is, except for the muffled clatter of your sunglasses on the floor, followed promptly by crashing. You are only partially aware that that's what Guinness sounds like when it hits a hardwood floor, only cushioned by, and now being soaked up by, some cold fish and chips. Your feet lurch into movement.**

_Your head is racing with words, though none of them know how to make it to your mouth._

**Only a fraction of a second is used for sizing one another up.**

_He smells like beer and cigarette smoke. He's been to the pub. Liam's filled him up, certainly._

**Your lips crash together, hands everywhere. You grip him as if you're trying to push him into yourself, like you're returning a missing part of you to where it belongs.**

_His grip is almost too much. You gasp for air._

**"I'm so sorry," you say.**

_"No," you reply, "I'm sorry. I'm so stupid."_

**"No, I am. I'm the one who's immature."**

_"I love you, David Cook."_

**"I love you even more, David Archuleta."**

_Your face is burning with hot tears. So is his._

**"God damn it, Archie, don't ever leave me. Don't ever." You palm the back of his head, kneading it with your fingers.**

_"I won't," you reply. "I can't. It's... it's very scientific. Gravity."_

**"I'm tired of being followed by your ghost. I need _you_, the real one."**

_"I need you too._

**The forty people from the elevator must be staring, but of course you don't care. Your hands circle his waist...**

_... you're suddenly aware that four hundred people are gawking, just out of your peripheral vision..._

**You pull him closer, because you know he's gonna bolt as soon as he's aware...**

_He traps you again with his lips. Like the moon and the waves._

**His soul bleeds from his pores. The intangible spark.**

_A thousand miles to this. How'd you ever leave?_


End file.
